


Abyssus Abyssum Invocat

by DragonsinGondolin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anathema; Newt; and the Them are students, Angels and demons being the teachers, Gothic, M/M, as in the Literary genre, early 20th century England, nothing too graphic more like ambience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22734058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin/pseuds/DragonsinGondolin
Summary: In the very beginning of the 20th century, Dr. Ezra Fell and Dr. Anthony Crowley are teachers at St. Jerome, a prestigious private school for elite children. A new year is starting, but unexplained and unfathomable events progressively occur on the ancient premises of the school. Will the two teachers manage to disentangle the threads of the mystery and prevent whatever dark force is at work from reaching its goal? And what space is left for their friendship and burgeoning love in this chaos?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This fic was written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2020.  
> The art is by the talented [Arania](https://araniaart.tumblr.com/). It was beta'd by the wonderful [Seekwill](https://bestoftheseekwill.tumblr.com/). English is not my native language, so her help was crucial.
> 
> The fic is, in a way, the first instalment of a story that could have a sequel. But for the sake of the Big Bang, it's as it is, and stops where it stops. A few consequences from that:  
> 1\. It can absolutely be read as a standalone with an 'open ending'. If I never get the time to write a sequel, nothing would be lacking.  
> 2\. But yeah, be warned that the ending is rather... open, and not really belonging to the 'happy ending' category... I wouldn't blame you for deciding to pass.   
> 3\. As a literature student with a Master (do American call it grad school?) Dissertation to write by next summer, I can't promise I'll have the time to write the aforementioned sequel soon, if at all. But as I said, it can live on its own, so we'll see.

The two men were standing at the window that overlooked the entrance. The air was still warm with the last remnants of August, but the soft breeze was already announcing the glooms of September, and the later the coldness of Autumn.

Anthony J. Crowley was a tall and lanky man, with the careless swagger of a sailor on land after a few drinks. His dark ginger hair glistened under the setting sun, giving him a sort of halo that his colleague who was standing a mere foot away from him was careful not to mention. Funnily enough for someone who taught at a Catholic school, Dr Crowley was not very big on the religion department. He was a man of science and shook his head at whoever dared to interrogate his soul. Some people ventured that he had had a troubled relationship with religion during his childhood. Once, a third-year student had mentioned that his parents knew of a Mister Crowley who had been a Reverend and who could very well be old enough to be their teacher’s father, or an older male relative anyway. This was bound to remain a mystery, however. They could never dig up anything more about the subject, and the teacher of Physics’ past was left unspoiled.

His vis-à-vis at the window, Ezra Fell, was more of a quiet and contemplative Christian, though he sometimes had his questioning in the privacy of his own heart. That they would associate with one another was strange, but they had taken a liking to each other within a week of Dr Crowley arriving at St Jerome and developed an unlikely friendship. If the students caught sight of the lingering and longing glances that the ginger scientist was sending the Professor of literature when the man in question was not looking, they were wise enough not to ask him about it. They commented on it, as students usually do, only among each other and in hushed tones.

As of the present evening, the two professors were looking at the students arriving for the new school year. They could easily recognise the oldest students, and some of the younger ones. What they were awaiting, however, was the little group of first years led by the groundskeeper. Dr Fell was really looking forward to see if he could already guess which would turn out to be literature enthusiasts. He wasn’t interested in hiding his glee. Dr Crowley was more reserved, but only outwardly. He was just as excited to see what the new batch looked like. He liked kids a great deal and above all the curiosity and eagerness to learn and ask questions. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, truth be told. Dr Fell was the only one who could pierce through the dandified and indolent exterior and realise that he did, in fact, care deeply about a lot of things. This he pointed out to his colleague sometimes, only provoking Dr Crowley’s indignation. Nice was a four-letter word.

“I really like this sort of weather, don’t you, Anthony? It has a strong Romantic potential.”

“Ah, yes, Romantic potential. Old dusty bookshelves, stormy landscapes, antique china. You do love those,” Crowley teased lightly, “I wonder sometimes if you’re not actually a few hundred years old yourself.”

“Oh, hush you, I was only trying to make small talk.”

Dr Fell’s answer was not annoyed, however, not even provoked in the slightest. He did like their little conversations. He liked their silences too, when they would just drink and read and work nearby one another without the need to say anything. Companionable silence, indeed.

“And I was only jesting, angel.”

This was a little game of Crowley’s, this nickname.

Once, they had had an animated conversation about religion and faith in which Crowley had shown the full extent of his militant atheism, to the vexation of the fair-haired book-lover. It was one of the rare – extremely rare – occurrences of them having an argument. It was two years after Crowley had started teaching there, and five after Fell himself had arrived. The result of their little theological debate was that Dr Crowley had been unfortunate enough to say that Dr Fell was as willingly ignorant and blind as the little renaissance angels of the paintings – happy to look the other way from their perfectly safe clouds as humanity suffered. It had been harsh, terribly rude, and Crowley had regretted the words as soon as he had uttered them. The otherwise good-hearted and friendly Fell had stormed out of the classroom where they had been talking and did not talk to him for a whole month afterwards.

Dr Fell had been in a bit of a predicament when they spoke next. A duo of brutish men had decided to pick him as their target as he was coming back from the village, knocking away his precious books and calling him names for the crime of being an intellectual. Well, there were very few people as carefully dapper and softly bookish as Dr Fell around the village. It had been the only time something of the sort had happened, fortunately, but it still stung. More importantly, it had made Dr Crowley – who had been walking to the river to think about life and other deep matters – particularly angry. The bullies had been sent their way, long story short, and Crowley had had the chance to apologise for his previous words. To which Dr Fell had apologised too for pressing the matter when it was obvious that the ginger-haired man was unhappy about it.

From that day onwards, it was the scientist’s joke to refer to that event by calling his friend ‘angel’… far from the ears of their colleagues and of their students, obviously. It was a Catholic school, after all, and mocking their iconography would not do. Moreover, keeping this conversation in his mind was the way he endeavoured to remember the other’s boundaries so as to never cross them again.

All of a sudden, Dr Crowley – who had been leaning on one side of the window – straightened up and stared over his hallmark sunglasses.

“Here they are, Ezra.”

“I can see that, dear,” the elegant book lover answered, his pale blue eyes already focused on the small group approaching.

How was it that they always looked so small? They seemed to be getting smaller and more youthful with each year passing. Or perhaps they were the ones getting older.

Dr Fell himself was at the threshold of his fifties and looked at this development with a usually confused countenance, as if he wasn’t sure when it happened to him. Dr Crowley, two years younger than him, was surprisingly unconcerned by it for someone who took such great pains in looking suave and cool. How many people had mistaken him for a young and hip lawyer of the city? Far too many to be entirely reasonable. But who could judge the vanity of Mankind except the Creator themselves, thought quiet and dutiful Ezra Fell – who pointedly refused to assign a gender to God in his will to be agreeable.

“They look fine enough, but we’ll see how they act during class,” Crowley remarked fondly, “they always seem to be precious little cherubs until you have to silence twenty of them at once.”

“They are not so bad. Eager, mostly. I just wish sometimes they could see that the advice we give and the rules we edict are here for their own good.”

Crowley looked at him with a sour expression, but his tone was equal.

“They want to have their individuality and independence respected and not be bossed around all the time. I can understand that.”

“Freedom is all good and nice but an excess of it means the end of good society. Boundaries are here for a reason: living together in good harmony.”

“There is a difference between legitimate boundaries and tyrannical rule, angel, even you can see that. Do you truly believe that Gabriel’s decisions are always fair and motivated by people’s best interests?”

Ezra Fell let out a small huff at the mention of their colleague’s name and refused to answer Crowley. He crossed the corridor they were standing in and went to the window on the other side, which overlooked the inner court. He was following a smaller set of the first years in particular – a group of four; three boys and a girl. They seemed to be in animated conversation and pointing to the architectural wonder of their surroundings.

As a matter of fact, St Jerome was built in the remnants of a monastery. In fact, the historical part of the school corresponded to the cloister of the previous religious institution. It was Gothic in its architecture, with stained glass on the high windows, and truly magnificent chapters at the tops of the columns around the inner court. A square tower had been erected during the Renaissance by the eccentric Lord who had bought the grounds after the Reformation – when the possessions of the Catholic church had been confiscated by the infamous King Henry. It loomed over the quadrangle like a sore thumb. The original monastic structure had been completed with two wings, one on each side. When you looked at the massive entrance door, the wing on the right was nowadays the students’ dormitories, and the one on the left was the kitchen and dining hall on the ground floor, and housed the school’s library above. Needless to say, Dr Fell greatly favoured that particular wing of the building, his two greatest interests in life being books and food. The wings had been added in the 18th century. All in all, St Jerome was an architectural chimera. Dr Fell could not fault them for being in awe before it.

“These four… they seem more eager and observant than the rest,” he mentioned to Crowley.

“Yes, apparently. We’ll see tomorrow if that prediction turns out to be true.”

They observed the first years some more, than decided to peel themselves from their spot to prepare themselves for diner. It was a convention that students were welcome back at the beginning of each year by a great opening diner when all teachers and students were expected to sit. The rest of the year, the meals were relatively free, except on the traditional Catholic holy days.

“You know, dear, I am quite excited about this new year. You know I have made some modifications to my program, and I am looking forward to see the results.”

“And I am happy to go back to my teaching, too. They have made progress on electricity over the summer and I’d like to discuss it with my older students. As long as Young Mister Pulsifer isn’t touching anything, that is. Otherwise, we should be safe.”

They were descending the stairs that led from their observation spot right above the entrance porch and emerged into the Hall. Teachers at St Jerome did not live inside the main building. They had little houses on the other side of the park, in what used to be a snug hamlet and had been converted into lodgings for the teachers some forty years after the school was created. Crowley and Fell’s predecessors had been almost on the verge of rioting over their accommodation for some time, until the director had agreed to let them have the hamlet for themselves. It was still called The Hamlet, at any rate, and it was the direction the two professors went, only separating at the door of Dr Fell’s humble abode.

“See you this evening, angel.”

“See you at diner.”

They exchanged one last smile, and Dr Fell closed the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

A new school year provided the occasion and advantage of meeting new students, working on updating one’s syllabus, and coming back to St Jerome and its weirdly elegant architecture, good healthy food, and library. Unfortunately, it also meant seeing your colleagues again. And if the previous sentence started with ‘unfortunately’, it was because Dr. Fell was not overly fond of his colleagues – Dr. Crowley aside, obviously.

The unspoken but commonly accepted rule of the school was that the staff of St Jerome was divided into two groups: the science teachers and the arts teachers. Furthermore, there was a more or less direct and open warfare between the two groups. Being the resident literature teacher, Ezra Fell obviously belonged to the latter category, and he tried his best to be friendly enough to his colleagues and be accepted by them. Yet, to be completely honest, he did not see the point in such a division and in its subsequent animosity. If anything, he felt that it could only create problems for the school and its students. Would it not be better if they all worked together for the common good?

To his eternal disappointment, none of his colleagues listened to him, and he decided relatively quickly not to insist too often, just in case they decided to antagonize him as well. It was a curious and dangerous dynamic indeed – one into which he did not wish to be caught. He therefore usually did his best to stay relatively far away from his colleagues if he could help it, settling for being polite at best when he was in the vicinity of any of the arts teacher, and avoiding the science teachers altogether to the notable exception of Dr. Crowley – whom he was careful to meet as privately as he could. The both of them had also arranged the careful lie – when any of their colleagues asked – that they were befriending the other in an attempt to discover what manner of shenanigans the other team was planning. It had been sufficient so far.

However, on the third day after the start of the school year, having avoided it as best as he could until then, Dr. Fell found himself trapped in the arts teachers’ room with one of his colleagues at last.

Gabriel was the name of their resident art teacher – art, as in paintings, sculpture, and the like, as opposed to the Arts, as in, the Humanities – which Ezra Fell was perpetually confused about, given that Gabriel was probably the least imaginative person he had ever met in his life. The literature teacher had always operated under the assumption that people who love and learn about the arts are generally people with some semblance of sensibility. Gabriel had the sensibility of a brand-new shiny pair of leather shoes: the form might be aesthetically pleasing, but this did not change the fact that they have very little romantic warmth and inspiration. Moreover, Gabriel insisted on being called by his Christian name by everyone, colleagues or students, and Dr. Fell was not sure he remembered what his last name actually was. There was something strange about this fact. It had the illusion of familiarity and friendliness without any actual depth. All in all, Gabriel had all the pretence of the innocent flower, but was very much the serpent underneath. Even his smile seemed fake. Yet everyone except Fell and Crowley seemed to like him. Even the other science teachers seemed to respect him, strangely enough.

He was sitting in one of the leather armchairs of the room, sipping on his coffee with the assurance of someone who had forgotten what a conscience looked like. Dr. Fell stopped a moment on the threshold, hesitating. Now that he was in the room, he could hardly turn around and leave. That would surely be entirely too obvious and he did not want to give any hint that he was in fact avoiding his colleagues. He therefore crossed the room, body tense and trying his best to appear smaller than he was, to pour himself a cup of tea, silently praying that Gabriel would simply ignore him. He was going to have no such luck, apparently. Gabriel’s voice raised as soon as Dr. Fell had reached the steaming tea pot.

“Good morning Ezra.”

He had a way of saying “good morning” that sounded rather ominous. Dr Fell would not have admitted it, but he started and almost dropped the cup in his hand. He closed his eyes a second, bracing himself, and turned around with a feigned smile on his face. If discomfort could be physically seen, Gabriel would have been able to perceive it emanating from Ezra Fell.

“Good morning Gabriel.”

“Have a nice holiday?”

“Yes, quite pleasant. How about you?”

“Very good. I went to Greece. Good times.”

“Good, good.”

He poured himself the cup of tea he had come to get, hoping that the conversation would stop there. Perhaps he could claim he had some work to do? It was too early in the school year for papers to grade, but a class to prepare or a book to consult might work.

“Tell me, Ezra…”

Damn it.

“Hmm... Yes, Gabriel?”

“Have you gathered information as to what Dr Crowley is up to these days?”

Ah, right. The teachers and their ineffable toxic rivalry. He had almost forgotten after a summer of blissful solitude.

“I do not think the scientists have had the time to regroup and plan anything just yet.”

“Ah! Good! We’re ahead of them. This year is off to a good start, my dear Ezra.”

Needless to say, Dr. Fell had absolutely no idea what the science teachers were actually up to. Dr. Crowley and him had better things to talk about when they were meeting. Besides, neither of them was much concerned about the ridiculous skirmish going on among the school staff, to begin with. Yet, they had to play their parts well if they wanted to be granted some peace of mind. Their respective ‘teams’ would never let them rest if they realised the two teachers were not doing their jobs in the ongoing battle.

“It would appear so, Gabriel,” the literature teacher agreed, sounding overly enthusiastic, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I simply came to retrieve some tea, but I have some documents to check for my next class.”

“Of course, of course,” Gabriel answered absentmindedly.

He was probably already planning the arts teachers’ next moves. Not that Ezra Fell minded if that meant he could escape. He therefore took the afforded opportunity to do so and disappeared through the door, sighing heavily as it closed behind him. The Almighty was truly testing his patience with this lot, but he had to stay strong. First of all, he needed to tell Dr. Crowley to stay on his guard. He had no reason to believe that the other side would not start the hostility early either, and they had to make sure they would not be caught in the crossfire.

He made his way through the ancient corridors, his gait heavy, only emerging from his thoughts from time to time to greet the students he encountered. As he arrived in front of his friend’s office, however, it appeared that Dr. Crowley was not there. It was too early for him to be in his classroom already, and Ezra Fell had the nagging suspicion that his friend was likely still sleeping. He had to admit that it was deeply entertaining to see how Anthony Crowley simply adored sleeping. There was ‘not being a morning person’ and then there was whatever the physics professor had going on. He seemed to never get enough of the sweet embrace of sleep. Dr. Fell smiled and turned back heels, deciding that his time would be best employed in his own office doing some reading. He would have plenty of time to meet with his friend later and give him an account of his conversation with Gabriel.

“Well, I don’t know what Gabriel and his cohort are planning for this year, but what I know is that Beelzebub is definitely up to something.”

“Oh? How so?”

They were sitting on two old dingy armchairs in the small living room of Ezra Fell’s cottage, and there was an empty bottle of red wine between them on the coffee table. They were going over Fell’s morning conversation with the arts teacher and Dr Crowley was looking at the carpet intently, trying to arrange his thoughts that the wine was muddling.

“I am not sure, but I have definitely seen Hastur and Ligur lurking around these past few days. Something is afoot, and I’m not sure I want to know what, to be frank.”

“I would like to myself, though,” Dr. Fell sighed, “If only to know what to expect.”

His colleague looked at him in silence for a moment. He had this strange ability to not blink often. One tended to forget about it until he suddenly stared at you for a while, and then one remembered that it was, indeed, unsettling. Not that Ezra Fell would judge him for that. Finally, the physics teacher blinked once and announced in a soft voice.

“You don’t owe them anything, you know? Gabriel and the others, I mean.”

“I am aware. But I have a duty, not to them, but to the school and to my students. I feel that, whatever is going on with the staff, if it disturbs our work, we ought to do our best to make things right.”

He was surprisingly eloquent for someone who was drunk on cabernet sauvignon and slouching so deep into his armchair that it looked like the piece of furniture was going to swallow him up entirely. Anthony Crowley’s resolution deflated when faced with such a display of passion and professionalism. Or perhaps it was that he was ready to do just about anything for Dr Fell as a general rule.

“Right. I guess I’ll keep an eye on these two idiots, then. Just in case they are indeed planning something shady.”

“I’ll keep the other side under surveillance too.”

“Although, I’m pretty sure they are too incompetent to be truly dangerous, contrary to Beelzebub and the others. I think Gabriel generally expect the situation to turn to his advantage without having to lift a finger.”

“He is quite vain and lazy, yes, but I would rather not bet on this.”

“I understand. Anyway, I’m less confident about the science side. They do like to provoke fate.”

“That is an understatement,” the literature teacher commented.

“Thank you, Dr. Fell.”

The blond-haired man started laughing loudly, rapidly becoming red. The wind was howling outside, and Dr. Crowley realised he would have to walk back home later, but for now he was sitting with his friend, sipping the remnant of the wine, and making him laugh. In spite of the conversation being centred around their colleagues and their shenanigans, the moment was sweet. Oh, how he wished for it to never stop, how he wished for the laws of time to stop working so they could enjoy it for all eternity. Just two entities sitting alone in the infinity of space and all of their worries gone. Wishful thinking. He indulged in that, every once in a while. You cannot be rational and practical all of the time. Everyone needs a fair amount of romantic ideal and poetry. Or so Anthony Crowley firmly believed.

He would probably need these ideals soon, but for now he was happy existing alongside his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

On their first Saturday morning at St Jerome, the group of first year students known as ‘the Them’ were enjoying themselves in the school’s park. It was a fine day, in the very beginning of September. The sun was up and shining, and the breeze was light and refreshing. Most of the students of the school were enjoying the last crumbs of good weather before it went downhill and autumn took the throne. The Them were no exception.

It was implicitly understood by anyone who had come into contact with them so far that Adam Young was the leader of their merry little band. It was nothing tyrannical on his part, nor cowardly on his friends’, however. They had just all understood quickly that he was the most intelligent and charismatic of them and that, in general, the ideas he came up with proved to be good fun. They therefore followed his lead good naturedly. The rest of the group was composed by Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale. They were nice kids overall, who liked a gentle sort of mischief but were decent and friendly, and generally did not make life too hard for the teachers. Dr. Fell and Dr. Crowley had been quite accurate in their prophecies about them. Their only problem so far had been another student of their year that people called Greasy Johnson, who had formed a little band of his own and was eyeing Adam’s rising popularity with some measure of jealousy. They wondered how the enmity would develop in the future but, so far, they were confident enough. It seemed to be a natural part of the student life.

“I wrote to my parents yesterday,” Wensleydale informed his friends, “they wanted to know how I settled.”

“Well, I’m not super into writing,” Brian grunted, “so mine won’t get anything from me.”

He was sitting on a low branch on which he had climbed as soon as they had arrived. Brian wasn’t exactly an intellectual, truth be told, quite the contrary, and none of his friends were surprised by his remark. No, he really was not the sort of kid to write letters – or anything really – if he didn’t absolutely have to. Wensleydale, on the other hand, liked to read books and to write about whatever he had encountered or seen. The best example of this being that they had lost track of him once this past week, and had found him sitting quietly in the library with a book an hour afterward. Pepper didn’t say anything. Her mother had raised her to be an independent young lady and she was of the opinion that writing back home was a waste of time and energy. Or so she had declared on their first day at school. She might grow to be a little melancholy in the next days, however, and perhaps she would end up writing… but only because she wanted to know how they were doing, absolutely not because she wanted any sort of advice or mark of affection. Absolutely not. As for Adam, he had drafted a few words, but he was not very good at focusing on letters and they all remained unfinished so far. He had a tendency to get lost in his old ideas and theories and it showed in his syntax. Therefore, as he tried to re-read what he had started writing, he realised that there was very little sense in it.

Wensleydale looked on the verge of arguing about the benefits of writing regularly for grades, or mental stability, or whatever it was he had read once in a book, but he interrupted himself with his mouth still open, looking past Pepper at something. His friends followed his gaze. There was a girl on the path between the trees.

She was one of the older students. Probably even in her last year. She was wearing glasses and had a sort of little briefcase under her arm. There was something determined in her steps, as if she had important things to do and was not accepting any delay nor nonsense. They observed her for a moment, then all exchanged glances between each other. Finally, Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale came to look at Adam, waiting for his decision. He motioned for them to follow him and went after the older student. At first, they tried to be stealthy, but it soon became obvious that they were not doing a good job, and they abandoned all pretences. The girl was still moving forward, completely aware of their presence behind her, but resolute to ignore them. Maybe she was hoping they would leave her alone after a while, or maybe she simply did not care. Either way, she walked quickly in the general direction of a little hill located at one end of the park. The Them did not abandon their pursuit.

She climbed the hill, still followed by the four youngsters, and once up there, she set her briefcase on the floor and opened it. The kids observed as she took out a few instruments from it. Finally, she turned towards them and observed each of them in turn through her glasses.

“I’m Anathema. Don’t interrupt me and you can stay. Any questions?”

Her tone was matter-of-fact and her accent foreign. None of them could identify where it was from, however, but it sounded really nice. Feeling more at ease with her, but still curious to know what she was doing there, Wensleydale was the first to speak up. He motioned to the instruments she was now holding.

“What are those things for?”

“Measuring.”

“Right. And what are you measuring?”

She smiled at him faintly and pointed at the grey mass of the school that laid some distance away, down below the hill.

“The buildings!”

“Ah. You like architecture, then?”

“You can say that,” her smile grew more enigmatic. He felt as if he were looking at the Mona Lisa.

Despite the apparent mystery of her behaviour and explanation, he did not ask her any more questions. He was passably interested in what she was planning to do and did not want to risk incurring her wrath or being chased away by being too chatty. He simply sat down on the yellowish grass, a few feet away from her, and tried to mentally make sense of her paraphernalia. Adam and Pepper looked at each other briefly and silently decided to stay and watch as well, only they tried to look disinterested and casual while doing so. Brian sighed loudly and started climbing the nearest tree, understanding that complaining or opposing the decision was doomed to fail anyway.

Seeing how her young friends did not seem to want to interrupt her and respected her wish for relative silence, Anathema turned back to her instruments and experiments.

The Them – or at least the three of them who paid attention – realised that she was indeed doing some calculation. She put her eye to one of her instruments that looked like a miniature telescope, took some notes down on a small leather-bound journal, repeated the operation, stared at her feet for a minute in intense meditation, took a sort of compass out of the case… all in all, it looked very scientific to their untrained eyes. As she was a student in her final year, they were willing to consider that she knew what she was doing. She certainly seemed perfectly sure of herself.

“Is it for an assignment?” Wensleydale dared to ask as she was finally putting her instruments back into the case.

“Yes, in a way.”

“Mathematics?”

Wensleydale had decided on his first day at school that Dr… sorry… Lord Beelzebub, their mathematics teacher, was decidedly not someone you wanted to cross. Their general air was nonchalant enough, but there was a sort of strange light in their eyes that warned you not to be too brave in front of them. The kid had decided that it was time to do some exercises to make sure he would not fall behind. Not that Wensleydale was the one who needed it the most in the class. He just was not willing to take any risk.

Anathema looked at him, then at Pepper and Adam, and nodded her head silently. She did not supply any more answer nor information, however, and they soon realised that she probably would not offer anything more than what she had already said. They did not follow her as she walked back down the hill towards the school, her briefcase at her side. They simply watched her go away without even daring to say goodbye. There was something strange and confusing about her. She seemed nice enough, but her dark eyes were intense and driven, and she had the same energy as a steam train going through the landscape: unstoppable. Well, they had no reason to be in her way, Pepper thought to herself, and a woman has every right to have her own activities and ambitions, and it was nobody’s business to go and ask her about them if she did not want to talk about it. If this Anathema wanted to have her secrets, she was not going to judge her.

“I didn’t know this was what mathematics looked like in real life.” Wensleydale was scratching his head.

“It looks more mysterious than in the books,” Brian nodded, “it’s almost interesting… but it still took half an hour, though.”

“I wonder why Lord Beelzebub asks their students to calculate the buildings.”

“It’s probably some trigonometry thing,” Adam supplied, wanting to feel useful to the conversation.

“But… there’s no triangular building in the school.” Wensleydale pointed out.

“Yes, but Adam’s right, it’s probably to make them apply theory to the real life,” Pepper answered.

They started making their way down the hill as well, now that Anathema was well out of sight. The evening was slowly making its way towards them, as could be seen from the course of the sun, and they still had a few things they wanted to do before dinner. It was time to go back inside and say goodbye to the tender weather. Brian kicked a stone with his foot.

“Mathematics or not, she’s still really weird.”

They all grunted in agreement. She had not said a lot to them and barely had acknowledged their presence in the first place. This made them feel a bit awkward. Of course, one could argue that they had interrupted her in her work, and that she had been perfectly happy minding her own business and calculations until they had started following her, which in turn had made it impossible for her not to acknowledge them, even though she had in no way invited them. By all means, she had been more civil then they deserved. Yet, children have a way of feeling entitled to inquire about your business, and to follow you around until you tell them. The Them were on their way out of childhood, but just barely at the threshold of teenagerhood. As much as they wanted to believe themselves mature and smart, they still had a few things to witness and process, among which learning that not everything happening in the world has to be checked and poked by you. They had therefore not really considered this as a possibility – save for Pepper, as was already mentioned. The bottom line being that Anathema Device had not been interested in talking to them and informing them of what she was doing because it was none of their business in the first place. She was a determined and focused person, not a rude one. But this, of course, they had no way of knowing from the limited amount of time they spent together.

They would have time to learn to know each other, however.


	4. Chapter 4

Young Mister Newton Pulsifer, bless his little soul, was entering his last year at St Jerome and had, quite frankly, not a single idea about what the next step in his life was going to be. Although the second week of the school year had barely begun, he saw the final deadline of June looming in the distance and was filled with the specific sense of dread and uncertainty about the future that only young people feel.

He was not without any passions or interests, however. In fact, he had realised at one point during his childhood that electricity was the energy of the future, though most of his contemporaries were still focused on gas and steam, and had therefore entertained the idea in spite of his young age that he could try his luck in the field. Sadly, Mister Pulsifer was not a prodigy in this domain – quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. To his constant dismay, any electrical device he so much as stood near was bound to stop working at best, or implode at worst. It was perfectly pointless to expect to make any progress in that area. His theoretical knowledge was above average and his calculations of remarkable precision. Yet, in practice, nothing ever functioned properly. Dr. Crowley had made it perfectly clear that he should probably stick to the theory and had even personally exempted him from coming to class on the days they were supposed to handle the instruments. Poor Newton’s dreams were irrevocably shattered before he could have started on this path. Perhaps he should brace himself for a lifetime as a clerk of some sort.

In the meantime, he was willing to make the most of his last year at St Jerome – which essentially meant doing precisely the same things as the years prior and still not acquiring any social graces. Newton was perfectly content with simply existing for the time being.

On the fine Tuesday of his second week back at St Jerome, he was making his way through the park of the school towards what were once upon a time the stables, and which were now used as some sort of shed for the various tools and instruments needed for maintenance. Nobody at St Jerome had any use for horses and carriages anymore. Most of the staff had arrived there precisely because they were trying to stay as far away from civilisation as possible. The train station with its two trains per week was more than enough for their needs.

It was a fact unknown to anyone at the school, however, that Newton’s father had acquired one of the first cars to ever be made. It was a prototype that a friend had built and it was clear that the thing should never have been allowed on the road under any circumstances. But Mister Pulsifer the elder was a curious little man who was generally excited about new discoveries in technology – something he had evidently transmitted to his son. He had decided to acquire the thing on principle. It was vaguely blue – or had been one day, anyway – and smelled of gasoline and wet carpet at all times. It was affectionately named ‘Dick Turpin’ after the 18th century highwayman. It was also one of the rare things Newton had inherited from his father, and he treasured the old thing accordingly.

The bottom line of it being that he had managed to smuggle the car into the school with the help of the groundskeeper, old sergeant Shadwell, which was why he was presently on his way to the former stables.

As was the case for every student, Newton had met the old man during his first day at St Jerome. Unlike most students, Newton did not know how to make friends at all and was often completely on his own by way of consequences. In search of some company, whatever shape it might come in, he had stumbled a few times upon Sergeant Shadwell – one time literally – and they had developed a kind of unlikely friendship that had lasted through the years. If he was being honest with himself, Newt was sad to think that he would likely never see the man again after the end of the school year. Shadwell had been such a constant presence in his life for the past few years, he who had lost his father very young and had never been able to get the attention or affection of his stepfather – a banker, who was happy paying for an expensive school to have his strange and lanky stepson away from his house. In a way, they were odd socks unable to find their respective match, and Newton felt that their patterns, though widely different, were assorted enough for them to have formed this strange new pair.

The sergeant was inside the stables, as Newton had expected. He was moving some of his work tools around and making a fine cacophony of it. Newton made sure to approach very noisily so as to not startle the old man and announced himself cheerfully.

“Good day to you, sergeant.”

“Ah! Private!” the old man barked in his usual manner, half turning around, “wondered when you would show up.”

“Sorry about the delay, sergeant. School work, you know.”

Shadwell simply nodded. He moved a box from here to there, focused on his task. He seemed to be looking for something but the young man knew better than to ask, so he put his hands inside his own pockets and looked around.

“Anything new around here?”

It was common knowledge that Shadwell was paranoid. He had spent a long time in the army as a young man and it had obviously left an impact on his mental wellbeing. He was absolutely certain that there were dark things afoot on the school’s premises and nothing nor anyone had managed to convince him otherwise. Granted, this was not helped by the gloomy Gothic architecture of the school, but there was a madness of his own making at play. Shadwell was constantly ranting about mysterious influences and shadows in the dark, and Newton was the only one who was willing to listen to him. Not that young Mister Pulsifer believed any of it. He was just bored and lonely, and there was something touching about the old man and his mania. Newton did his best to indulge his only friend.

“Well, the usual, overall. Although…” Shadwell paused for a moment, “I saw one of your classmates late in the evening. Saturday, I think.”

“Ah? Who?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care about your people’s names. Some girl with long dark hair, glasses, in a long coat.”

“Oh. Not sure who that is.”

As previously mentioned, Newton did not spend a large amount of time around his classmates. There were maybe two or three girls fitting this vague description and he was overall unconcerned about any of them going for a late evening walk. It was more a matter of friendship than of real interest that prompted him to inquire about the event.

“What was she doing?”

“Had some weird instruments. Used them to look at the school from up the hill.”

“Uh… right.”

He did not know what to make of it but he suspected that Shadwell had a theory of his own. He was right.

“You know what my thinking is, private?”

“Do tell me, sergeant.”

“Witch.”

“Which what?”

“No, a witch. I think the girl’s a witch and she’s trying to cast some magic on the school, mark my words.”

Witches were not a new thing in the panel of what Shadwell was on the lookout for. It was a rather common one, as a matter of fact, along with demonic possessions. Newton was surprised he wasn’t more inclined toward blaming fairydom, but perhaps it was not religious enough for his tastes. Somehow the imagery the sergeant related to the most was distinctively Christian in nature. This was a Catholic private school after all, so maybe he ought not to be surprised.

“And what do you propose to do about this, sergeant?”

“Hm… for now, nothing. But if she keeps doing this, we might have to intervene. In the meantime, we only need to observe and work out her plan.”

Newton was not entirely certain he liked this use of ‘we’, but he didn’t have the heart to disappoint the old man. He supposed he would let the events happen and see where the took him, then. He was very good at that, if anything. He had been an unwilling inspector for Shadwell’s little mania before, and the worst that had happened was him falling backward into a puddle because he had been startled by a stray dog. The dog, by the way, had been the cause of Shadwell’s fears at the time. He was sure something was doing blood ritual with some innocent rabbits. The poor dog had just been desperately trying to feed itself. All’s well that ended well, as a local farmer had adopted the animal in the end. So much for satanic incantations and summoning, however.

Nevertheless, Newton was willing to compromise on behalf of his friend and to be part of Shadwell’s tiny army of the righteous, no matter how ridiculous it all sounded to him.

“Alright Sergeant. I suppose I can try to identify her and see if she behaves oddly during class.”

“Classes? Why, private, we’ll need to keep an eye out for her nocturnal activities as well. Very good at hiding their demonic practices, witches are. She won’t do anything strange around people, oh no. They’re too smart for that.”

“You’re not suggesting staying up all night to keep watch, are you?”

“Come on, private! The fight against the regiment of evil won’t be won from the warmth of one’s bed.”

“I have classes to attend sergeant. I don’t think I can just stay awake every night to spy on another student. Somehow… I feel the school won’t accept that as an excuse.”

The old man did not reply at first and took a moment to think.

“Alright. I suppose I’ll keep watch myself and you can replace me every once in a while.”

“Of course,” Newton replied in a whisper, relieved.

He was not particularly looking forward to spending a night outside watching some girl taking a walk by moonlight, but he supposed there was no escaping Shadwell and his strange idiosyncrasies once he became set on one of his many paranoid theories. Almost seven whole years of knowing him had taught young Pulsifer that any attempt at distracting Shadwell from his obsessions was bound to fail. He therefore made no attempt to do so, and they spent another hour together working on the car in silence instead. Newton then made his way back towards the quadrangle as the sun slowly descended in the sky.

He stopped for a while on the doorstep of the school, observing the stars that were starting to show themselves in the peach and pink sky. He did not know what he was going to do with his life, but there was something strangely comforting with the idea that the universe was still moving forward regardless of his individual situation, and that he was a small yet breathing part of it. Come what may, life would find a way, he believed.

He turned away from the beautiful spectacle of nature and entered, closing the door of civilisation behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

Madame Tracy certainly was an interesting person. No one could tell who she was exactly nor where she had come from… nor what her real name was, for that matter. People only knew that she had arrived in town one day by the morning train and bought the local pub from the former proprietor – an old man from Lancashire who had been happy to sell it to go live in blissful retirement closer to his family. She was now managing said pub, which actually doubled as a tea parlour during the day, and had become an important figure of the local community with time.

People whispered that she was a former ‘lady of the night’, a ‘worker’ – with the careful euphemism that they usually employed about these things. The school’s first years regularly whispered amongst each other about what these expressions meant, until they finally understood and shrugged before returning to their regular activities. Madame Tracy was well liked within the community, and nobody ever commented negatively on her past life – real or supposed. That is, except for Sergeant Shadwell, who was distrusting of everyone, to be fair. Her reputation seemed to rub his Christian-based mania the wrong way, though. Or maybe it was the board over the bar that cheerfully advertised her skills as a practitioner of divination and otherworldly communication. His favourite name for her being ‘painted jezebel’, it might well have been the former explanation. Nevertheless, her pub was the only place where an old bachelor such as himself could get a hot homemade meal and a pint of beer for his daily troubles, and he could therefore be seen at his usual table of her little establishment every evening. She always put some extra effort into his meals, and it was said that she had a sweet spot for the old man.

She had apparently made it her mission to ensure that her little community was well and thriving, and carefully documented what was going on in town, sometimes subtly intervening in favour of the happiness of others. She was not always accurate in her perception of the situation, and her subtlety was not always as subtle as she thought, but she was well meaning. Now that the school year had started after the dull summer months – when all she had to work on was a few farmers and the spinsters next door – she could also monitor the teenagers and their professors again. As a matter of fact, she was currently observing a favourite pet project of hers, one that had been in the making for about five years.

Dr. Anthony Crowley had just entered the pub and was making his way towards Dr. Ezra Fell on his long odd legs. He was wearing a dark suit, the trousers being rather tighter than was conventional, and a white shirt delicately ornated with lace around the collar and at the cuffs. It looked lovely on him, and Madame Tracy caught Dr. Fell’s hungry gaze as his colleague sat down in front of him. He had been happily drinking his Darjeeling tea and digging into a slice of lemon pie so far, but this was another kind of hunger altogether. They soon were in deep conversation and she wished she could hear what they were talking about. She might have been of a different opinion had she known that they were discussing philosophy. Blissfully ignorant as she was, however, she simply watched the two teachers talk from behind the bar, already pouring a glass of red wine for the physics teacher.

To say that both men were utterly ignorant of her observation of them and of her obsession with fuelling their romance was an understatement. They both had the ability to be ridiculously oblivious to their surroundings, and that extended to the pub owner’s more than clumsy ways. Had it been otherwise, they would have probably been able to notice their counterpart’s respective longing gazes, blushes, and sighs to begin with.

Unfortunately for her, even as she was bringing his glass to Dr. Crowley, Madame Tracy did not manage to catch anything meaningful from their conversation except a few words about the finer aspects of the line between Good and Evil. As she was retreating back behind the counter, the teachers’ conversation was going strongly, but they were saved from further eavesdropping by the door opening to admit the shape of Sergeant Shadwell. That ought to make her focus on her own love life and leave theirs be.

She smiled softly at the sight of the old gentleman making his way towards the bar, selecting his usual stool to climb unto – the less dingy and more comfortable one in the room. She went to put some coffee on for him as he sat down and stared out of the window for a moment.

As excited and merry about the new school year as she was, she had to admit that she felt a bit absent-minded that day. She had broken one of her favourite tea cups this morning, which was a shame. But what she had seen in its depth… well, it simply was cup-dropping. And then there was this business with the cake she had almost let burn. Well, she sighed as she stepped into the main room again, there really was nothing to be done about this. There were days on which things did not want to work with you and you just had to wait for the universe to rearrange itself in the right order. Shadwell, who was usually not the most observant of men, heard her sigh and gave her a funny look.

“Well! Don’t you look a bit… not there today...” He lowered his voice to ask, “it’s your two teachers giving you trouble?”

She looked over his shoulder to where Dr. Fell and Dr. Crowley were sitting. No, it wasn’t about them at all. They were their usual selves, as oblivious and ironically domestic as ever. She gave his question consideration for a moment, then shook her head slowly. Did she want to tell him, of all people, about the odd and foreboding feelings she was having today? Well, it wasn’t as though she had many people to tell anyway, she reckoned. It might as well be him.

“It’s just… I have this strange feeling, Mister Shadwell.”

“What in Heaven are you talking about?”

He was ready to dismiss it as another one of her eccentricities – or sins, he reminded himself – but her thoughtful and concerned expression made him pause for a second and squint with curiosity, against his better judgement. Yet, after all, he reasoned, if shenanigans were afoot, he needed to know. It might be related to the mysteries he was so desperate to uncover himself. Never dismiss a hint, he reminded himself.

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a frustrated expression on her face, “I just… feel something in the air.”

“In the air?” he repeated, taking her words literally and sniffing around him, “smells like cedar to me.”

She smiled at him with a fond but exasperated expression, as if listening to a child.

“No, nothing like that you silly old man. Not a smell. I mean that something sinister is brewing.”

He was feeling even more out of his depth. The only thing currently brewing in the pub was coffee, but he had the distinct feeling that she was not talking about that either. And, as was the case every time he didn’t understand something, he just scoffed and turned his attention back towards his meal. If she had nothing more to offer, then he was beginning to lose interest.

Sensing his confusion, Madame Tracy made her way around the counter and came to sit next to him. He made an involuntary movement away, but quickly got a grip of himself and acted as if nothing had happened. She simply rolled her eyes with good humour. She was aware of his weird superstitions and didn’t care much about them. There was a strange gentleness to him, all things considered, under his layers of odd fears and beliefs. Besides, he wasn’t entirely wrong, so she couldn’t really blame him. His only mistake was to see what he feared as a negative thing… but most people did anyway. She balanced her foot on the side of her stool, attempting to sort her thoughts.

“You see, Mister Shadwell, I believe that something or someone might be preparing some terrible things.”

“Witches?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she smiled gently as if talking to a particularly obtuse child, “Witches are not responsible for any of this, I can assure you.”

“How would you know?” he muttered.

He didn’t seem entirely convinced, in spite of her confident tone. She did not answer his last question, however, but drummed her fingers on the counter. Her rhythm was off, but neither of them particularly cared about that sort of thing. Only Dr. Fell usually did, but he was sitting a bit too far away and was still far too engrossed with his ginger-haired colleague to make a note of it. Meanwhile, Madame Tracy was trying hard to put some order to her thoughts and find the words to express her concerns.

“I don’t know who that might be, but whoever this is may be dealing with things that are bigger than they can handle.”

“But how do you know something is happening?” He insisted, still not following her thoughts nor where they were going.

“I told you. A feeling. An intuition, if you will.”

“Anything more… specific?”

“I’m afraid not,” her finely pencilled eyebrows rose above her eyes, “But I certainly intend to discover more about what’s going on.”

He was scratching his jaw absent-mindedly at that point. He hated to admit it, but she was confirming his worst suspicions, which was both terrifying and strangely validating. Long decades of living in fear and planning for the worst to happen, carefully and painstakingly compiling information, tracking down evil, only for people to laugh at him and call him a paranoid idiot who needed to leave the war behind him. Oh, the sweet vindication.

“Aye. I believe we have to investigate that.”

“Glad to see we are in agreement for once, Mister Shadwell.”

She was smiling at him, but he simply shrugged shyly. He supposed, sometimes, you had to ally yourself with the most unlikely people to defeat the greatest evil. He was still not sure she was not up to some dark business herself, but whatever it was did not seem as terrible as what could be lurking outside, at the periphery of their vision, ready to strike. And, who knew, if she was sharing her doubts with him and proposed to help him in his quest, perhaps she was not unredeemable. She might be ready to consider some renunciations of her dark dealings. Something inside him – not very deep inside – was hoping for it, anyway. Shadwell had never been a bad man. He was simply too set in his ways, perhaps. But even the grumpiest of bears can be taught new tricks.

He was still meditating on this matter as she set his cup of coffee in front of him and went to greet new patrons who had just entered the pub. He was chewing on his bacon and a new light was shining in his eyes. Here it was, he thought, after all this time and this energy spent. The reward. The confirmation and the results. The salvation, perhaps. All he had been building towards. And he was not alone to fight anymore. He had two allies on his side. A little army of fighters against darkness. Yes, he liked the sound of that!


	6. Chapter 6

At the turn of the fourth week of the school year, Autumn had fully settled over St Jerome. The colours of the landscape were turning as warm and comforting as the weather was turning cold and wet, and the light itself was paradoxically dull and vibrant in turns. It truly was a beautiful vision, one which the residents of both the school and the town enjoyed wrapped in coats and scarves, their hands around a hot cup of any available warm drink. Madame Tracy saw her clientele increase significantly in the space of half a dozen days and was particularly lively and active as a consequence.

The season suited the school particularly well, as it happened. The Gothic architecture seemed at times to be glistening with a light of its own. The walls looked almost reddish at certain points in the day, as if the grey stone were suddenly set ablaze.

The leaves were crackling under the soles of Dr. Crowley’s tight-laced shoes as he crossed the inner court of the quadrangle. He was blind to the beauty of the nature and building around him, however. He had been finding himself in an increasingly bad mood over the course of the last couple of weeks. He did not sleep well, to begin with, which was a shame because it was one of his favourite activities, right after stargazing. He could not understand exactly what was wrong with his sleep pattern. Nothing had changed significantly in his life recently, and he had not received any distressing news of any sort. It was also too early in the year to feel overwhelmed by work. He could not make any sense of the situation. The fact remained that his amount of sleep had dropped dramatically.

A new element had arisen that very morning which confused him even further, however.

The realisation happened as Dr. Crowley had gotten out of the shower – a tedious affair, by the way, using the ancient plumbing system of the school and its various outbuildings. It made the most awful sounds, clanging and resonating within the walls, and the water was always either just a little too hot or just a little too cold, making it an incredibly frustrating ordeal. As he approached the bathroom mirror to shave, having applied a generous amount of shaving cream, his eyes caught something above his shoulder. He could not clearly make out what it was. The mirror’s edges were blurry, and he tried to turned around a bit to get a good angle. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get a proper look at it. He felt it tugging at the edge of his vision for the rest of his time in the bathroom, bothering him slightly even though he kept telling himself that it was probably a shadow cast on a wall. The lighting system was not particularly good either, and was probably not helped by the general lack of sleep.

All of this had understandably not put him in the best of moods before he even had the chance to leave his little cottage.

His plan had been to find his good friend Ezra Fell and discuss his mood with him, in the hopes that the calm and pragmatically-minded man could help raise his spirits a bit. Unfortunately, Dr. Crowley could not find him in any of the usual spots. He had rung at his door, but the literature teacher had apparently already left. He had crossed the lawn to the school and checked more of his favourite locations, but Fell was neither in his study nor in the kitchen. This only aggravated Anthony Crowley further, which was why he was in the process of crossing the inner court to get to the library, the next best place he could think of.

He stopped abruptly when a figure exited the other side of the building across from him. A short individual, dressed in a large black cloak but with their face uncovered. Their black hair was cut relatively short, but it was a tangled mess – not as a result of the wind, though, but simply of its natural state. Their gaze rose to meet Crowley’s and a rictus of discontent appeared on their face. The physics teacher had to suppress a sigh. There was no escaping, now. He had to make some semblance of small talk.

“Beelzebub,” Crowley acknowledged their presence with sobriety.

“Crowley,” was the equally sober reply.

Lord Beelzebub was the resident mathematics teacher and the leader of the science faction of the ongoing conflict within the staff. This position had been de facto attributed to them by virtue of their noble blood on the one hand, and because they were the smartest of the bunch on the other. Crowley would not have admitted this last part, of course, but facts were not to be thwarted. This did not mean that Lord Beelzebub was necessarily the wisest – nobody at St Jerome seemed to be wise per se, but, once again, this is not always a requirement for academics. As for the nobility part – something that their title suggested – it was in name only. Beelzebub’s family had fallen in disgrace at some point the previous century, for reasons that Crowley didn’t know and didn’t care to learn, and they had lost everything they previously possessed. In fact, their insistence on being addressed as Lord Beelzebub was only symbolic. Legally, they were simply Dr. Beelzebub. Yet, maintaining the basis of a good work relationship dictated that everyone at school allow them to have at least that one thing. Only Gabriel forsook the title sometimes, when he wanted to be deliberately insulting.

Beelzebub’s eyes lingered for a moment on their colleague’s features.

“You seem tired, Crowley.”

Crowley did not mistake this for genuine concern. The tone was perfectly matter-of-fact and he knew perfectly well that empathy was not Beelzebub’s best quality. It was no use denying his current concerns, however, and so the physics teacher simply shrugged.

“I’m not getting a lot of sleep these days, that is all.”

“That is unfortunate, indeed.”

“Hmm. And I have to say, I don’t know how or why this has come to this situation. I cannot even blame overwork, it being so early in the year.”

Lord Beelzebub was quiet for a moment, staring at their colleague and visibly thinking, then stated in a perfectly flat, if not slightly tired, tone, “Perhaps, if I may be so bold as to venture a guess, you have not had the healthiest diet, lately. Such things have been known to disturb one’s sleeping pattern.”

Dr. Crowley did his best not to blush at the veiled implication in Beelzebub’s voice. He had indeed spent a significant amount of time with Ezra Fell since the beginning of the school year, and they had had many occasions to overeat and overdrink, especially in the evenings, after classes. His embarrassment subsiding, albeit only slightly, Anthony Crowley scratched his chin pensively.

“You may have a point,” he conceded, not liking agreeing with Beelzebub but not really finding a fault in their suggestion, “perhaps I should look into that.”

“A healthier diet, with less rich food and alcohol, and a bit of exercise would do wonders.”

Exercise, really? Who did the mathematics teacher think they were talking to? Gabriel? No, Crowley would definitely do without the exercise. Monitoring his diet a bit more, on the other hand… he might give it a try, at least for a few days. He was so exhausted that he was actually considering it. He would have to see if the resolution would hold, however. He had never been known to have the healthiest of lifestyles. But perhaps he was getting older than he had thought and his excesses were less forgiving than they had been before. He did not imagine Ezra would be very happy about this decision, though.

“We’ll see how it goes. I’ll let you know,” Dr. Crowley gave his colleague a nod, “Now, if you excuse me, I need to… do some work.”

“Good day to you, Crowley.”

The two teachers parted ways with one last nod, and Dr. Crowley returned to his previous plan to check the library in search of his friend.

This idea turned out to be the winning one, at last. Ezra Fell was indeed browsing the bookshelves of the novel section with a dreamy look on his face. He stepped out of his reverie as he saw Crowley appear between the aisles, and smiled brightly at him – a smile that faltered a bit as he considered his friend’s sleepless face.

“Anthony, my dear boy, are you alright?”

“Just tired. I haven’t slept well these past days.”

“Oh? How come? Something on your mind?”

“No, nothing in particular. Beelzebub does think I am overeating, though.”

As Crowley had guessed, Dr. Fell did not seem to like this theory. He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

“I imagine they would say that, yes. Have you seen them? They don’t seem to be eating a lot themselves. Of course they would tell people to eat less.”

This made Crowley chuckle. Ezra Fell loved food and always took people advocating for healthier diets or, God forbid, exercise as a personal offense – though Crowley himself completely agreed with his distaste for the latter, as was previously established.

“I imagine, yes. That being said, angel, they are not completely wrong. We have had many copious meals since the year started and I dare say a bottle too many. Not that I am complaining, but we may have celebrated a bit too much.”

“Well, I… I suppose,” Dr. Fell patted his own chubbiness thoughtfully, “And I guess if it has a negative impact on your sleep, you should do something about it. I would hate for your health to be ruined, dear boy.”

“We’ll see how it goes. There’s no harm in trying. It doesn’t mean I have to eat vegetables exclusively, anyway, but I’d still like to give this theory a shot, just in case.”

“Indeed.”

“I don’t like feeling this tired, after all.”

“Understandably.”

“I feel strangely drained, angel. I mean, I like my sleep as much as the next person… alright, perhaps more than the average person… but I’ve rarely felt this tired before.”

Dr. Fell seemed a bit alarmed at the thought, but he did not voice his concern to his friend. They had exited the library by that point and paused at the threshold, hesitating.

“Your office, angel?”

“Hm… yours,” the literature teacher winced, “I… might need to tidy a bit.”

“It has never bothered me before, but fair enough.”

They started making their way towards Dr. Crowley’s office, in silence at first. Then Dr. Fell, not being able to contain his concern anymore, turned towards his friend.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Crowley.”

“Oh, don’t worry too much about it, angel. I am exhausted, but it’s fine. I only need to find the cause of this lack of sleep, that is all. Who knows… it might just be the season. It is getting rather cold, after all.”

He laughed a bit at that, but he himself wasn’t really convinced. It was apparent that Ezra Fell was not entirely sure either, if his nervous laugh and knitted brow were any indication. He did not, however, press the matter further and by the point they had reached Dr. Crowley’s office, it had been dropped altogether and their conversation had shifted to other topics.


	7. Chapter 7

Pepper was entirely convinced that something strange and wrong was happening within the walls of the school. At first, she had believed that the situation was just the normal state of things in a boarding school. She had been to a perfectly normal primary school before being accepted and sent to St Jerome, her mother and stepfather having only recently come into money and deciding to use the opportunity to send her in a finer establishment. As a consequence, she had no prior knowledge or clear understanding of how things were usually supposed to be. However, after a while, she had started to feel relatively sure that what was happening did not fall under the umbrella of the commonly accepted features of a regular boarding school.

There had not been any sudden change nor massive happenings. It had rather been a more progressive shift and slow realisation – a small unassuming feeling tugging at one’s mind and whispering ‘perhaps this isn’t normal’, growing slightly overtime until it simply could not be ignored anymore.

The whole thing had started with students complaining about trouble sleeping, because they slept significantly less and their sleep was troubled when it was finally achieved. A number of them mentioned strange recurring nightmares that eluded them once they woke up. Some also felt a discomforting ache in their bodies, as if their muscles were turning into jelly and their bones into powder. It was nothing overwhelming, nor did it seem particularly grave – no student was passing out from exhaustion or anything as equally dramatic – and it might have been a widespread case of the cold or the flu, but there really were no other symptoms of either. It was becoming a common topic of discussion, anyway, to the point where it started raising some alarms in Pepper’s vigilant mind.

And then, there was Adam.

For some reason that Pepper could not claim to understand, Adam seemed to be impacted by whatever was going on to an even greater extent than the rest of their classmates. He looked continuously exhausted, to begin with, even more so than the others. Wensleydale had confirmed that their friend had not been sleeping much lately and that the rare sleep he did get seemed particularly agitated. He was also moody, which was not usual for him, and easily irritable at times. Of course, this last fact could simply be the result of the lack of sleep, but something in his behaviour made Pepper think that there was more to the matter. She could not put her finger on what exactly made her think so, but the feeling was lingering and disquieting, and she was willing to trust her gut instinct.

She had therefore been the first to pick up on the situation. After her, the next to acknowledge the problem was Wensleydale. He had not been too difficult to convince that something was going on. He wasn’t the most perceptive, usually lost in a book and thus half blind to the real world, but he was smart and had been perfectly able to put two and two together when Pepper had pointed to the clues. Brian had been significantly less willing to admit that something was wrong. He had a cheerful, optimistic outlook on life and was subsequently less inclined to see the negative aspects of things. It wasn’t in his nature to easily acknowledge when something bad was happening. That being said, even he had developed suspicions after a while, and Adam’s continuously worsening state had been an adequate final argument in favour.

She had been carefully observing Adam for well over two weeks now, her other friends joining in along the way. All four of them were currently sitting in the study room – formerly the chapter hall of the abbey – working on whatever assignments and exercises they had been given lately. Wensleydale was doing some calculus, Brian was wrestling with Dr. Sandalphon’s German exercises, and Adam was reading the novel for their literature class. As for herself, Pepper was pretending to read her biology notes, but in reality she was mostly stealing glances at Adam, who was struggling to focus on his book. She could not – and did not want to – shake the feeling that something more than just lack of sleep was affecting him. It was improbable that so many people in the school were complaining of the exact same malady. But why on earth was Adam more affected by whatever was going on?

Adam appeared to realise he was being observed – quite frankly, she wasn’t the most discreet of people – and he lifted his gaze towards her.

“What?” His eyebrows rose as he whispered.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Just thinking? Sure. You’ve been looking at me funny for days… all of you, in fact.”

Wensleydale was still staring at his book, but his ears turned a few shades deeper red at the accusation. Brian, on the other hand, looked up at Adam and scratched his head lightly, then looking to Pepper for a sign on what to do. The girl let out a sigh. She wasn’t sure how to present things, but maybe it was a good conversation to have after all. If something was wrong with Adam, they probably needed to address the problem with him instead of behind his back. Still, she didn’t like not to have the upper hand.

“I mean, sure we’ve been looking at you. But it’s… I mean… you’re acting kind of funny, that’s why.”

“I… what do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You seem on edge.”

“I’m tired, that’s all. Everybody is, right?”

Wensleydale chose that moment to abandon all pretense of doing his homework and chimed in.

“There’s tired and then there’s… whatever is going on with you.”

“Pretty much, yes,” Brian supplied, trying to be helpful by backing up his friends’ claim but not having a lot to say.

Adam remained silent for a moment and something dark flashed in his eyes, a sort of strange, sickly light. Was he angry at them? They weren’t sure. The rest of his face remained impassive and they could not tell if it was fury or something else that had come and gone. The light disappeared quickly. It was only a passing thing, something you could almost doubt you’d seen… if it had not been so intense and striking. After this moment of silent contemplation, Adam shook his head slowly as if to chase a bad dream and conceded.

“I guess I feel more than just tired. But… it’s just the weather and all the work we have, I think. And, I suppose, being far from home. That does feel a bit weird.”

The others hummed in reply, thoughtful. Brian reached across the table and patted Adam’s hand with a bright reassuring smile.

“Yeah, I suppose there’s a lot going on right now. But, dude, if you’re feeling… well… not so good, you should tell us.”

“Yes, that’s what friends are for, right?” Wensleydale agreed, “there’s no reason for you to struggle on your own.”

Something inside of Pepper was not entirely reassured by this exchange, and a quick glance at Wensleydale informed her that he too still had his reservations. That strange flash in Adam’s eyes, whatever it had been, did not help her worries. Yet, it had gone far better than she had hoped. She had been ready for him to deny everything, to say they were overreacting, or worse: lying. She had even been prepared for him to lash out at them. His acknowledgement that there was some truth in what they were saying was surprisingly promising. It was a first step towards uncovering the solution to this problem, and to do so with his cooperation instead of having to work behind his back or against him. Now she only hoped that the situation – whatever its cause was – would not worsen.

She sighed faintly and turned her focus to her homework, at last. Biology would not inscribe itself in her mind on its own, after all.

From her current position carefully hidden behind a carved pillar, the tall and dark-haired silhouette of Anathema Device had listened to the whole exchange with her eyebrows raised. She had found herself in the right place at the right time. It was not entirely out of sheer luck, though. Her steps had been guided. They always were and always had been for as long as she could remember. She silently turned heel and started making her way down the corridors, her mind heavy with the recent development she had just witnessed.

And an interesting development it was, to say the least. Worrisome, there was no doubt about it, but also a bit exciting if she were honest with herself. First of all, it meant that her calculations were true and that It had started for good. She had received several hints since the beginning of the year, and even more so given the recent events of the school: the strange ailment that seemed to have taken most students. And now she had received the final confirmation that things were moving forward. She had to admit she was astonished with how quickly it was going. She would have to work even more quickly than she had anticipated and, she wasn’t sure if her lifelong training would be enough. Well, it was too late for having regrets or second-guessing. She had to focus all of her energy into the task at hand.

Back in her dormitory, she pulled her notebook out from under the mattress and studied her last entry. It had been written a week before and she could read in her words her frustration at not finding the answers on what was to come, though she was certain it was fast approaching. She had gotten back from a night of calculations and deciphering, all of which had wielded few to no results, and the rest of the night had been troubled and restless. In the morning, as her classmates had left for breakfast, she had written the words in a frenzy of bitter emotions. How could she hope to stop what was doomed to happen if she was not able to properly understand it? Yet here she was now, and she had made some significant progress since then, she thought with a satisfied smile. Patience, her mother had always told her, brings better counsel and rewards sometimes. It had never been Anathema’s strong suit, but she was beginning to see its virtues.

She took her pen and started another entry, pausing from time to time with the tip to her lips to articulate her thoughts. She was grateful that things were moving forward and that a path seemed to clear out in front of her but, in a way, it made it real and definitive. She had been chasing these things for so long, now, for as long as she could remember. It had been her whole life since she had been old enough to understand. And now it was happening. How strange.

She was feeling partly relieved and partly nostalgic, and she wasn’t entirely sure where one feeling stopped and the other started. She shook her head. Her work was far from being done.

She finished her writing and hid the notebook under the mattress again.


	8. Chapter 8

For some time after his conversation with Shadwell, Newton Pulsifer had completely forgotten the promise he made the old man to keep an eye out for his odd classmate – whoever she might be. He had quite the workload with school, to be fair, although everybody who knew him would have told you that the poor boy had a tendency to be absent minded to begin with. And it had to be conceded that the last year of high school was usually stressful and busy for everyone. Compared with the wild conspiracies theorized by an old army veteran… well, Newt’s priorities were clear. As a consequence, his brain had simply decided to get rid of the extra information to make space for other, more important things.

When it finally occurred to him that he had promised to keep watch around the park, about ten days had passed. Feeling a sense of shame washing over him as he examined the depth of his bowl of soup at dinner, he decided that he had let Shadwell down enough as it was, and that he ought to get the job done. This night would be the night. He was going to wrap himself tightly in his warmest clothes and raincoat and stand watch in the park in the hopes of catching a glance of the mysterious girl.

And this was the story of how and why he was there, in the park, in the middle of a cold October night.

It was about eleven and the moon was pale in the sky – when he could see it shine through the dark clouds, anyway. He was cold and damp from the rain and had seen no sign of anyone taking a walk around. He was starting to think that Shadwell might have had an hallucination, prompted either by his love for wine or by his obsessive search for nefarious activity. Newt was of the opinion that people who were looking for reasons to be afraid always found them, one way or another. And Shadwell was always looking for reasons to be afraid. It would therefore not be surprising if the old man had dreamt an apparition in his drunken stupor. Whatever the case may be, Newton was strongly considering leaving his spot and going back to his bed. He had a German class early in the morning and God knew he needed the rest if he wanted to understand anything of what was going on. Shadwell was not really worth catching a cold nor failing his year.

However, that was the precise moment he saw her, at long last. At first a mere silhouette advancing at a brisk pace between the trees, he soon identified the figure as someone dressed in the school’s girl’s uniform and a dark cape. She was carrying a suitcase in one hand and something long and apparently tubular in the other. So… that was the girl Shadwell had been talking about, after all. He felt a pang of regret – another one – about doubting his old friend but quickly brushed it aside in order to spring into action. Now that he had visual confirmation of the existence of this girl, it wasn’t time to sit idly and mope. Shadwell would want him to be a man of action, not some angsty philosopher.

He stood up from his spot under a pine tree, brushing his trousers lightly with his hands, and began making his way slowly and as quietly as he could, following after her at a reasonable distance, trying to assess where she was heading. He didn’t have to wait for very long, though. She was walking fast and with purpose. She climbed the hill and quickly set down the long thing she was carrying – a sort of tripod, as it appeared – and then rummaged into the suitcase from which she got a few measuring instruments. Newton prided himself with being good at science, though he was never allowed to manipulate the instruments, and recognised what they were for. He wasn’t sure exactly what she was hoping to do with them, but it certainly got his attention.

As a matter of fact, his attention was so hooked that he forgot that he was trying to be stealthy and, being his usual clumsy self, put his big foot on a twig that snapped in half with a sound that reverberated in the silence of the night. The girl turned her head quickly and looked him dead in the eyes. She was wearing glasses, and he recognised her after a few seconds of mutual observation. She apparently recognised him as well.

“Good evening, Newton.”

“Uh… hi Anathema,” he supplied, ever the charismatic young lad, “what are you doing?”

His attempt at sounding casual fell flat given the circumstances, but she simply shrugged and pointed to her instruments.

“Calculation. I’m doing some research on architecture. Nothing fancy, but it might lead to something interesting. Universities like people who have pet projects, you know…”

It sounded like a well-rehearsed mantra and he couldn’t tell if it was because it was a lie or because she wanted to explain herself in case she were to be caught. Maybe a mix of both, who knew?

“Oh, right. And that leads somewhere?”

“It does, actually,” she smiled, but it faded quickly, and she considered him for a moment with her eyebrow raised, “and you? Why are you here?”

“Ah. I’m… well I’m sort of friends with Sergeant Shadwell and-”

“Oh, I see. Let me guess… I’m a horrible witch doing some witchy things?”

“Yes,” Newt laughed, relieved by her amused tone, “and I’m afraid I’m going to have to denounce you to the Spanish Inquisition, Miss Device.”

“Shame! Just when the ritual was going to be completed!”

She was joking, of course. She had to be. And yet, something in her voice was oddly serious. He felt a chill run down his spine. 

“Mind if I sit down and watch you work? That sounds awesome.”

“I knew a scientifically-inclined mind like yours would be interested,” she nodded with a smile. “Be my guest.”

He found a spot of grass that didn’t look too wet and sat there in silence. He didn’t want to interrupt her careful calculations and observations, which she went back to as soon as he had settled. She worked like this for what felt like hours, but might have also been about ten minutes. Time was a relative thing from his experience. He found himself almost lulled to sleep by the sounds of the night, the cool air on his cheeks, and Anathema’s occasional humming. It certainly didn’t feel as comfortable and warm – and dry – as his bed, but he was quite grateful for the repose.

That is, until a sudden and loud gasp came from where Anathema was standing. A gasp that did not seem pleased. Startled from his half slumber, he looked up at her from his spot on the damp grass. She was pinching the bridge of her nose, but it didn’t look like frustration or annoyance. It was a different sort of emotion. She seemed unhappy with whatever it was she had found.

“A breakthrough?” he ventured.

But he received no answer. Instead, she turned toward him slowly, revealing her face. He really didn’t like the worry he could see there. Another chill ran up his spine, and this time, he decided not to ignore it. With his most gentle voice, he decided to break the silence that was threatening to settle.

“What’s really going on, Anathema?”

She sucked in the air and emitted a little whistle.

“If you really want to know, you’re going to have to trust me, Newton.”

“Uh?”

“What I am going to tell you will sound crazy. But I feel like it might help me see things more clearly if I explain it to someone.”

And with that, she launched into a long-winded but careful explanation. A headache had built into his skull by the time she was halfway through it, but he did his best to focus on her words. She had not been lying or exaggerating… it did sound insane.

A long, long time ago, there was a woman who had been blessed – or cursed, depending on how you wanted to look at it – with divination powers. Newt had been really grateful that Shadwell had not been present to hear that. It would have certainly derailed the conversation. All was mostly well, and she was living her best life helping her fellow villagers, predicting the good and bad weather for the crops, warning of various threats, sometimes curing benign diseases. But she had the misfortune of living at a time when witch hunts were… fairly common, to say the least, and her prowess soon became known to the authorities that didn’t see witchy business in a positive light. She was therefore, in the long run, burnt at the stake… not without a certain flair, as it turned out, since she had concealed some explosive into her garments and took out the witch hunters and half of the village with her. Small victories.

This, however, was not the most interesting part of her story. Agnes Nutter – as was her name – had made a few interesting predictions over the course of her life, the most interesting of which seemed to revolve around a rather disturbing quasi-pagan scenario. According to her, the World was constituted of several dimensions which turned around each other, superposed sometimes, and on few occasions bled into one another. The main one was the one where they stood and lived. But another important one contained horrors beyond the imagination, bigger than life and death, and older than time itself. That is the point where the headache had started to settle.

There had been more information and side points than Newton’s brain had been able to fully grasp or remember, but the bottom line of the presentation was that Agnes Nutter had seen into the future, and what she had seen was a moment in time when a tear in-between these two dimensions would occur. The problem being that the shadows living in the other one – the Not-heirs one – should never cross into their own if humanity wanted to have a chance at survival.

That sure sounded concerning, although every new detail swam around in Newt’s head and made him feel a bit dizzy and confused.

Aware of Anathema’s anxious gaze resting on him, he cleared his throat, opened and closed his mouth – which felt incredibly dry – a few times, before managing to ask in a feeble voice,“And… St Jerome?”

“My family has spent three centuries researching, interpreting signs, carefully studying maps and calendars. What we’ve been able to conclude with certainty is that the tear is supposed to happen somewhere in or around the school… this year.”

“This year?” he squeaked like a frightened mouse.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Not sure if They have anything to do with this, quite frankly.”

“And that gasp?”

“I’ve just confirmed what I suspected. That the dimensions of the school are coherent with the predictions of Agnes. It’s there. And… I’m both relieved and worried.”

“Because it makes it final.”

“In a way, yes.”

They stayed silent for a while. Anathema was still standing in front of him, her cape flapping slightly in the cold wind. She was wringing her hands.

“Do we still have a shot at preventing this?” he asked finally.

“Yes. Agnes said the tear was man-made.”

“Oh. But who would be…”

“I have no idea. I just know someone will try to open a portal and that they’re going to use a… boy… to do so.”

“A boy?”

“Or a child, at least. That’s the wording. But I think I’ve managed to identify the kid, so there’s that.”

There was another long moment of silence, during which Anathema slowly put away her tools with shaky hands, while Newt was still trying to make sense of it all. Something in her words and demeanour – as crazy as it all seemed – was telling him that this was not madness. Besides, had not Shadwell repeated that something was afoot throughout the years they’ve known each other?

Whatever it was, he considered as they were silently making their way down the hill and back to the school, the situation was worth exploring. If it was madness, he would know quickly. And if it wasn’t… well… better safe than sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a cold October night, damp and gloomy, and there was nothing particularly interesting about it except for the two middle-aged men sitting on one of the benches in the park. One of them had a sallow white complexion and dirty white hair and was smoking a cheap little cigar while sending quick and nervous glances around him. The other, with dark skin and hair, was hugging himself, arms wrapped tightly in a big brown coat, and was staring in front of him, lost in his thoughts. Hastur and Ligur were the inseparable teachers of biology and chemistry, and the only reason why their students didn’t joke about them basically being an old married couple was that the burning wrath of the former and the cold-blooded fury of the latter were legendary. Nobody who had spent more than an hour in their class was foolish enough to try any manner of humour.

The white-haired one, Hastur, threw the remnant of his cigar on the ground in front of him and did not even bother to smother it with his foot. He was still glancing around him, frustrated and restless. He could no longer contain himself, and soon broke the silence.

“I don’t even understand why we need him to begin with. Can’t we just force the kid to do his part in the ritual?”

“Apparently not. The kid needs to accomplish it of his own complete and free volition. That’s what I understood anyway.”

“Right. And Crowley is useful… how exactly?”

“It seems that our good… friend… Crowley is quite good with kids. They trust him, somehow. That one does, anyway. He might be a key to convince the kid to do what he has to do. And so we need to get Crowley to help… or we have to force him to help anyway.”

“I don’t like having to rely on him. Too close from that stupid blond goody-two-shoes.”

“We just have to trust that Lord Beelzebub knows what they’re doing.”

Hastur grunted. He was not entirely convinced by his friend’s trust in their colleague – not that he would ever say that out loud in front of the mathematics teacher. His foot was now tapping lightly against the ground. He was still glancing periodically around him, but he was also peering at his pocket watch. It was evident that he was in a sour mood and that each minute spent sitting on this bench was only worsening it – understandable, given the weather and the late hour.

“Where in the Hell is this idiot? We said ten o’clock didn’t we?”

“Patience, patience. He will come. You know how he is. Nonchalant.”

“Just for once I would like the fool to be a bit more punctual. It’s bloody freezing.”

Ligur made a non-committal hum which could have been an agreement or a dismissal. They didn’t have to wait for very long, however, as the tall and lanky silhouette of Dr. Crowley soon emerged from behind a shrub. He certainly looked nonchalant indeed.

“Good evening to you, gentlemen.”

“You’re late, Crowley.” Ligur said matter-of-factly, speaking up before Hastur had any chance to be more aggressive than needed.

The ginger-haired man simply shrugged. He could not have cared less about punctuality.

“So,” he used the opportunity to light a cigarette, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this late meeting?”

He was not even trying to hide the sarcasm in his voice, which made Hastur emit a low growl – something that Crowley also ignored. After all, he wasn’t the one who had called for this strange meeting. He could not be faulted for not being overly enthusiastic about it, especially considering the hour. He could be nursing a nice glass of red wine with Ezra Fell, or enjoying reading quietly in the comfort of his own abode – instead, he was freezing outside with these two buffoons, and he’d never been particularly fond of his two colleagues to begin with.

“Let’s cut to the chase then,” Ligur offered, “your help is needed.”

“My help? I am… flattered, I suppose.”

There was a question in his voice, but Ligur didn’t lose time commenting on that.

“Indeed. Lord Beelzebub needs a job to be done, and it seems you are the only one who can perform it.”

“Ah.”

“A special job. They need one of the first years, Adam Young, to do something for them.”

Crowley did not like where this was going. They wouldn’t be standing in the park in the middle of the night if this was strictly related to their teaching. It was something other than mathematics or a science competition. Not that the kid was a brilliant future scientist, anyway. He was a normal, average kid, but curious and questioning. Crowley liked that kid’s mind. He frowned.

“And what might that something be?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself with, really. We just need you to control the boy.”

“Control the boy”? That definitely wasn’t something he liked to hear. Crowley wasn’t sure if this was a joke or not. He hoped so, but the serious expressions of both men were telling him that all hope was ridiculous and futile. He shook his head.

“You people must be short of a marble! Absolutely not!”

“Oh, Crowley… nobody is asking for your opinion, I’m afraid.”

The tone was chilly, as only Ligur could manage. Hastur’s grim face lit up with a nasty smile. Crowley faintly realised that Ligur had taken something from his pocket, but he couldn’t really see what it was. Then there was a sort of light, green and sickly, and it felt to Crowley as if he were suddenly walking through a mist. Or perhaps it was his brain that was beginning to cloud. Ligur’s voice was piercing through in a collected but chilling tone that made the little hairs on Crowley’s neck stand up.

“Now, Crowley, you are going to follow us quietly and gently. We have some work for you to do!”

Ligur was grinning, but it was in no way a nice and inviting smile. It was a smile that made you understand why Ligur’s students were very careful not to anger him, or why most people usually tiptoed around him. It was also strangely distorted, and Crowley could not tell whether it was his own perception failing him or Ligur’s face was contorted by some strange force. Hastur was slowly advancing towards him, extending his arm as if to grab him, but Crowley stumbled backward like a terrified deer. He felt queasy and trapped.

“Come on now, Crowley. There is no need to make things unnecessarily difficult.”

Yet every fibre of the physics teacher’s being was revolting against them. A jolt of energy traversed his body, and he quickly turned around and began running in the opposite direction – the direction where the teachers’ cottages stood. Crowley was fast, very fast, something that neither teachers had expected considering his odd gait. In spite of the dreadful state he was in, Crowley thus bolted away from them at an incredible speed and both middle aged men – who had given up exercising a long time ago – were left quickly behind.

It was quite the run to the cottages, and it felt even longer and more exhausting because of the strange state he seemed to be in. What had these two weirdos done to him? Whatever it was, one thing was crystal clear: Adam Young was in some sort of danger and he and Ezra had to do something about it. He was trying to keep an eye and ear on his surroundings to see if he was being followed, but there was a strange buzzing sound in his ears, and his vision was blurry.

After a while, he could finally see the door of the charming little cottage inhabited by his friend and colleague. The desperation he could feel deep inside his guts was only enhanced by the sight of the familiar door that he had crossed so many times before. The last few feet felt like an eternity. But at long last, he reached the door and banged a few times, letting himself slide down, exhausted by the effort. He barely reacted as the door opened and the warm light of the interior fell on him. His head was leaning heavily against the cold stone, somehow keeping the fever in check. He could only look up at Ezra Fell but even then, his vision was blurry.

“Almighty God! Crowley!”

The fair-haired man knelt down, pressed his hand to Crowley’s forehead and, feeling it was burning, hurried to drag the science teacher inside and toward the living room. It had occurred to Crowley before that his friend was in fact very strong. He had witnessed Ezra carrying stacks of books around effortlessly. And he would have been lying if he’d said that he’d not dreamt of those strong arms around him. But now was not exactly the right time to think about these things. He felt himself being laid carefully onto a sofa and he tried to get a grip on reality.

“What happened?” came the concerned voice through a fog.

“Something… something is wrong.”

“What?”

“Um,” he paused. The words eluded him. “Hastur and Ligur. They want… something. About a student. I can’t…”

“A student! What? Who?”

Crowley was trying his best to remember but something was blocking his thoughts. It felt like trying to open a door that was locked. You knew you should be able to open it and yet…

“Can’t remember. But they wanted me to do something for them... about a boy.”

“A boy. Male student. Alright. That’s already a start.”

There was nothing more Crowley could do in his present state. The more he was trying to snatch the missing information floating around his memory the further away it fled. Maybe he would have better luck with some rest. He could feel the mist creep from the edges of his mind and threaten to overtake him entirely. The idea of simply falling asleep and forgetting about all of it was seductive. After all, he had had so much trouble sleeping for some time. About a full month of insomnia and unsettling nightmares he could not fully remember after waking up – when he did manage to fall asleep. Getting some rest, at long last. Yet something in him was reticent to do so – a light that beaconed him and warned him not to let himself go adrift.

“What is that!”

Crowley chose to focus on Ezra’s voice to keep himself afloat. His friend had grabbed his arm, pulled up the sleeve further, and was examining his pale skin. The literature teacher’s exclamation and the look on his face made Crowley squint to observe his own skin as well.

Well, this certainly was something.

On the milky white skin, amidst the freckles, a collection of bruises had spread. Purples and blues and blacks. Strange. He did not remember hurting himself. And yet the bruises were definitively there, under Ezra Fell’s tan and gentle fingers. Something was crawling on the edge of his vision again. It wasn’t the strange mist anymore. He was slowly pushing through that one, and the vision of his bruised skin was quickly sobering him from whatever it was that was trying to pull him under. No. It was a feeling he had had for the past month, that there was something else tugging, carefully hiding on the corner of his eyes. It had started on that particular morning while shaving and had kept him on edge from time to time for the past few weeks. He felt that they were not elusive shadows anymore. They were starting to take form, slowly. That and the bruises… he wondered. No, he shook his head, he could not allow himself to be mad.

Ezra was now observing his face intently, as if trying to find a clue of the puzzle there.

“My dear boy, something is definitely afoot, and I’m afraid it might be something much more nefarious than what meets the eye.”

With that, Crowley was certainly not going to argue.


	10. Chapter 10

There was no time to waste, obviously. With the events that had transpired between Crowley and his two colleagues, the feeling that something was afoot had been confirmed. He had had a bad feeling for some time before that and, quite frankly, telling himself that it was the season or that his diet had been unhealthy hadn’t felt entirely convincing. Ezra Fell had nodded slowly when Crowley said that, and shared his own suspicions. Yes, it seemed that dark dealings were indeed happening in the shadows, and they were not going to let them happen without fighting back – or at least trying to.

First, Ezra Fell and Anthony Crowley had decided to keep a careful eye on their worrisome colleagues, Hastur and Ligur. While they still didn’t know what it was that the two were trying to achieve, nor who the student they were targeting was, they could at least watch the pair until they could learn more. This had not led them anywhere, unfortunately. Perhaps Crowley’s narrow escape had made their plans go down the drain, or maybe they realised that they were being watched and decided to lay low for a while, but they didn’t do anything out of the ordinary during the following week. In the end, Crowley and Fell had decided to relax their watch a tad. But only a tad.

Meanwhile, Crowley was doing his best to fend off whatever force was meddling with his mind and to remember the lost name of the student. It seemed to him that he was making daily progress. It was still painfully slow considering the potential urgency of the situation, but there was nothing he could do to accelerate the process. He was already using all of the meditative techniques he could think of. As for the bruises… well, he didn’t have time to worry about those. They hadn’t seemed to alter with time, which was odd and certainly not what bruises were supposed to do. Yet, at the same time, they had not spread either so that it didn’t seem like a priority for the time being. Finding the kid and keeping him safe, on the other hand, was. This did not prevent Ezra from fussing over him, however. Part of Crowley liked it. It felt nice to have someone care for and about him. He tried not to get distracted by the idea.

After a few days of searching his memory relentlessly, and with the dutiful help and advice of Ezra, Crowley finally reached an epiphany. He shot up from the sofa he was meditating on with a victorious cry.

“I have it!”

“Wh- what?”

The startled literature professor retrieved his book from where it had fallen on the floor and stared at Crowley with expectation in his eyes.

“The kid! I know who- I remember his name!” Crowley interrupted himself to suck in some air. He felt strangely out of breath, “Adam Young!”

“Wait… that’s a first year, right?”

“Yes!”

“Right. What do Hastur and Ligur want from him?”

“Absolutely no idea. I still can’t remember that… I’m not even sure they told me to begin with.”

“Well, I suppose whatever their plan is, we still need to talk to the child.”

Crowley sighed. Yes. He didn’t like that, but they had to have a conversation with Adam Young. The sooner the better. Should anything happen to the kid, he would never forgive himself. He could read a similar concern in Ezra’s eyes.

The very next day, they were sitting in Madame Tracy’s pub, at a table in a corner of the room – a table where they wouldn’t be in danger of being spied on. The two teachers were sitting with their back against the wall, overlooking the place to make sure nobody would creep on their little trio. Adam Young was sitting in front of them, stirring a hot chocolate offered by Dr. Fell. Food would soften any blows, right?

Adam wasn’t paying much attention to his drink, however. His stirring was rather absentminded. That was understandable, to be honest. Dr. Crowley had just finished his account of the chilling encounter with Hastur and Ligur. It was awkward, especially as it concerned a child, but, once again, Adam had to be warned.

Yet, contrary to what they had feared, Adam didn’t react negatively to the story. They had wondered if he would laugh at their face, or think they were crazy. Or perhaps, if he believed them, he would be terrified or angry. But on the contrary, his expression softened and he let out a sort of sigh, which could have also been a low whistle. A part of him felt strangely relieved. He imagined that this was not the emotion he should have been feeling, but having the beginning of an explanation as to why he had been feeling so wrong was comforting, in a way.

“Well… that explains a lot.”

“What does?” Ezra Fell asked softly, as if trying to appease a scared animal.

“I have been feeling really strange lately. I mean, other students have too, but it seems that it hit me more, somehow. I don’t know.”

The two adults looked at each other, then back at Adam, who continued pensively.

“It sort of makes sense that someone was messing with me. And maybe with the whole school.”

“I suppose it does, yes,” Ezra Fell agreed.

Adam scratched his head, still looking thoughtful, and remained silent for a couple of minutes. It was a lot to take in. He then turned his gaze towards Crowley.

“But the question is… what do they want me to do?”

“Frankly, I have no idea. But whatever it is, it probably isn’t good news. Why would they need me to persuade you of doing it otherwise?” Crowley answered earnestly.

“Fair.”

Crowley’s fingers were drumming on the table. God, he was in desperate need of a cigarette. But Madame Tracy didn’t allow that in her establishment. He chased the thought away and kept the conversation going.

“We’ve kept an eye on them for the past few days, but they haven’t done anything notable. Maybe they’re biding their time. I never thought they were particularly smart, but maybe I didn’t give them enough credit.”

“Or maybe they are waiting for something to happen. That’s a possibility, too,” Ezra Fell offered.

“Yes. But what for?”

Ezra shrugged and it was Adam’s turn to intervene.

“So… whatever the thing they are planning to do is, I think there’s no mystery as to its nature… not really. I mean,” he paused under the surprised gaze of his teachers, then started counting on his fingers as he listed, “Listen, sleep pattern muddled, strange bruises appearing on people’s bodies, confusion and memory loss. That’s not stuff that people just do. That’s not normal. There is something… uh… alien about it.”

“Black magic if you want my expertise. Definitely.”

All three of them jumped at the female voice uttering these words. In spite of their best efforts, Crowley and Fell had been so absorbed by the conversation that they had not seen Madame Tracy approach behind Adam. Now she was putting down a teapot in front of Dr. Fell and smiling nervously.

“I am not entirely sure what you are talking about, my lambs,” she said, “but I feel we might have similar interests.”

There was a pregnant pause after that, all four of them looking at each other alternatively, a hint of confusion floating in the air, until Adam broke the silence.

“Well, sit down I suppose, Madame Tracy. You seem to have a theory and I’d like to hear it.”

“Thank you, young man.”

She took the chair next to his, and Crowley rapidly gave her an account of what he had already told Adam. She pondered on it for a moment, then took a deep breath before talking.

“First of all, let me tell you something. I’ve had some intuition since the start of the year. Nothing really solid at first, only a… sort of chill, if you will. But I am what you would call sensitive to these sorts of things, and I always trust my instincts. You never know how they might save you.”

They all nodded along, though Dr. Crowley seemed a bit more reserved then the two others, and she felt she could continue her explanations safely. They were at least open enough to listen. That was already better than most people she had met in her life.

“Right, well, the intuitions started adding up, and took some shape... more or less. What I know anyway is that something occult is being planned out around here. And all of my hints point to St Jerome.”

“Then I believe we do have something in common,” Ezra Fell offered with a smile.

“Any idea what or whom, specifically?” Crowley interrupted.

“I’m afraid not. That is not how my intuitions work, unfortunately. But there might be a way to know…”

There was optimism written across her features and that brought some comfort to the two men. Adam was back at looking into the depth of his cup with a pensive look. Crowley shot him one worried look. He was at the centre of all this after all, whatever this was about. Poor kid.

“What do you have in mind, Madame Tracy?” Crowley finally asked.

“There is a technique, using advanced divination. I have to admit that I never tried it before. Never had to, to be fair. But it’s worth a try. We would have to get close to a key location, though.”

“Key location?” Crowley’s eyebrow raised.

“Yes, close to wherever your two colleagues are trying to do… whatever they are trying to do.”

“Right. That’s quite a large area, potentially.”

“My vibes point to the school itself, so that’s a start. But where in the building? I don’t know. Will it be enough to be somewhere within the school? No idea either. But it’s worth a try.”

“We don’t really have a good alternative. I mean, except getting hold of Hastur and Ligur and getting them to talk one way or another.”

They all turned to Ezra Fell, who had just uttered the previous sentence, and stared at him for a few seconds. Was he entertaining the idea of torture? The literature teacher gave them his most innocent look and threw his hands up.

“Obviously we are not going to do that. That’s my point.”

“So, when are we doing this?” Adam turned to the pub owner to stir the conversation away from what had just happened.

“The sooner the better, I suppose. I’m ready whenever you are.”

“This evening?” the youth proposed.

“Sure.”

They both turned to the two teachers, who nodded in unison. The two men were as anxious to see this through and get answers as Adam and Madame Tracy were.

“Alright,” Madame Tracy smiled, “this evening, after dinner. I’ll meet you in the hall and we can start from there. Hopefully some of my intuitions will kick in and we’ll get a more precise idea of where to go.”

An agreement was formed, and promises of finding themselves at the aforementioned place exchanged. Madame Tracy went back to her business shortly after, and Adam downed the rest of his chocolate. On the way back to school, the three of them remained silent, each contemplating the latest developments and wondering where all of this was leading.

Well, they were going to find out soon enough.


	11. Chapter 11

The remainder of the afternoon had been nerve-wracking, although it had only been about four hours. Crowley and Fell kept a careful eye over Adam the whole time. Even during the evening meal, they had been observing him carefully. Both Hastur and Ligur had been nowhere to be seen. When the appointed hour came, it was almost a relief, even though they were anxious about what they were going to do.

The school possessed a big gateway built of wood and iron that towered several feet over everyone. It was quite the hustle to get it to move, as it was huge and heavy. They hardly used it for anything else than ceremonies and official events. As a consequence, people used the smaller, more standard-sized door on the left of the gateway. This was where Crowley’s eyes had been darting for the past fifteen minutes as he was pacing the hall, anxious to see Madame Tracy emerging from it. It was just about ten minutes after the time they had agreed to meet on, but in their current state of mind, any passing minute added to the anxiety. It felt like a catastrophe had befallen the poor woman. Had Hastur and Ligur somehow found about their plans and had done something to her? Maybe they shouldn’t have left her alone.

He lit up a cigarette with shaky fingers.

At last, however, the smaller door opened and Madame Tracy appeared behind it, carrying a large handbag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. It gave her the air of a governess arriving to a Gothic mansion to take care of the children and potentially uncovering the tragic story of the local ghost. Maybe she was actually something of the sort, considering their current situation. Crowley could still not fully wrap his head around the idea of anything occult going on. He considered himself a rather rational individual overall. He acknowledged her presence with a nod, but stopped before he could greet her verbally. She had not come alone, apparently, and the presence behind her certainly was a surprise. The school’s groundskeeper, the grumpy Sergeant Shadwell, entered the hall and gave Crowley a military salute.

“Why…” Crowley let his voice trail.

“I met him on the way here. He knows something is up, obviously, and insisted on coming to make sure everything was… uh…” She turned to Shadwell, “I believe the expression you used was ‘within the rules’ Sergeant?”

“Yes. Nothing demonic will happen under my watch.”

“That’s the plan, Sergeant.” Madame Tracy offered with a smile before turning to Crowley. “Where are Dr. Fell and the boy?”

Crowley pointed behind his shoulder to the other side of the hall, where the inner court of the quadrangle stood.

“The boy needed some fresh air.”

“Understandably.” The pub owner nodded.

They crossed the hall in the direction of the court, and emerged outside in the cold evening air. Adam Young and Ezra Fell were standing there, in quiet conversation, though it became quickly apparent that they were talking to dispel their fear and not really because they really had anything to tell each other. They dropped it and turned around as soon as they heard the others arrive. Everybody exchanged the usual greetings, but there was a tension among them – or rather, a sense of anticipation – and they all quickly decided to get to the task at hand.

“Right,” Ezra Fell turned to Madame Tracy, “What are we doing now?”

“I need to find the key place if we want it to work.”

“How do we find the place?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she approached Adam and put her hands on his shoulder, looking into his eyes with a soft smile.

“I’m going to need a bit of help from you, dear, if that’s alright.”

“O- okay,” the boy stuttered.

Madame Tracy closed her eyes for a moment and muttered something under her breath. When she opened her eyes, they had a strange golden tint which quickly faded, and she rose her stare towards the first floor.

“We have to go upstairs.”

“Lead the way.” Ezra Fell answered as cheerfully as he could.

They made their way upstairs quietly, using the large stone staircase – a Renaissance addition, and accordingly quite big and grandiloquent for a former monastery, with carved handrails depicting grapes and fruits, wheat and summer flowers. Definitely out of place compared to the rest of the architecture, but fascinating as a historical landmark. Madame Tracy led the group further into the corridors, muttering some more to herself. They couldn’t make out what she was saying, nor if it was even in English.

At one point, as they had almost reached the end of a long narrow corridor that led to several classrooms, Madame Tracy froze. She seemed to be listening intently. Indeed, noises could soon be heard. Footsteps and the sound of hushed conversation. Crowley made a silent gesture for the rest of the group to stop and wait as well. What if it were Hastur and Ligur? With some luck, whoever this was would continue forward and not see them. No such good fortune, however. Emerging from around the corner, two figures appeared and stopped dead in their tracks upon seeing them. Two last year students that the teachers knew very well. The girl had long black hair, glasses, and was carrying a suitcase. The boy’s hair was brown. He was tall yet puny, and also wore glasses and a perpetual dreamy expression. The two groups looked at each other silently for a moment, before Ezra Fell broke the silence.

“So, uh, fine evening, isn’t it? What are you two doing?”

“Fine evening?” Newt started, before being interrupted by Anathema’s elbow on his flank.

“Very fine indeed. We were just going to take a nice walk around. Digestion, you know.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at the suitcase she was carrying to her side. A suitcase he had seen her with a few times before. He didn’t comment on that, however. After all, he wasn’t particularly keen on explaining what they were doing either. The rest of his group must have had the same thought, because they were all trying their best not to appear embarrassed or nervous. Most were failing lamentably. Newt, on the other hand, looked at them all with confusion written on his face, and asked the obvious question.

“And yourselves? That’s a… strange group you’re having there.”

Two teachers of the school wandering around with one first year student, the owner of the local pub, and the lunatic grounds keeper… yes, it was indeed a strange group. But before anyone could think of something to answer to deflate the tension, Shadwell’s voice rose from the back of the group.

“Private? Is that you?”

“Sergeant?”

“What are you doing here? Wait!” the old man’s eyes darted to Anathema, “It’s that girl! The one who wanders around the park at night. I recognise the suitcase.”

That made the silence even more awkward between them. Newt averted his gaze, realising that he had probably made some mistake. Shadwell and Anathema were both looking at him in an accusatory manner. Dr. Fell and Dr. Crowley were looking at each other, more and more perplexed by the whole affair with each minute passing and not seeing an end to the madness. Adam was frowning and trying to catch one of the teachers’ attention. It was a confusion of gazes and expressions. As for Madame Tracy, she looked at Anathema with a smile, as if she understood something that the others could not grasp.

“Wandering around the park? Have you found something interesting, dear?”

Anathema turned her attention from Newt to the older woman. Her expression slowly changed and mirrored hers.

“I have made some calculations. I… I suppose we’re all here for the same reason, then?”

“Yes, we are. You can speak freely.”

“Alright. I measured the main building of the school. The quadrangle that formed the old monastery and the two wings, I mean. And, um, what I found,” she was taking a paper out of her pocket and showed it to Madame Tracy, “is that the dimensions seem to match a description in ancient manuscripts-”

“Manuscripts? What sort of manuscripts?” Crowley asked from over Madame Tracy’s shoulder. The mention of calculations and measurements had grabbed his attention.

“Hm…” Anathema hesitated, shooting a glance at Madame Tracy.

“Oh, I see. Occult books. No need for secrecy, dear. Not with us.”She pointedly ignored Shadwell’s indignant huffs behind her and kept studying the paper.

“That seems to point to… uh… whatever that place is.”

“That used to be a private chapel adjacent to the Archbishop’s apartment,” Anathema informed her.

“Ironic place for an occult ritual.”

“Indeed.”

“Onwards, then!” Crowley interjected with a sigh.

The group started again, Anathema and Madame Tracy leading the way, Crowley escorting them like an oversized protective crow. Ezra Fell followed with a calming hand on Adam’s shoulder. Newt and Shadwell came last. The old man was grumbling his discontent at the student not telling him what he had learnt. He wasn’t entirely wrong, Newton thought. He had promised to tell Shadwell anything he had managed to discover, after all. Yet, something in what Anathema had revealed to him made him want to keep his mouth shut. He feared that there were too many things to elucidate before giving a proper account to anyone. The sergeant had to reluctantly agree with that logic.

The chapel had not served its intended purpose for a few centuries now. It was a relatively small room, with stone walls and floor. Its barren surfaces were only interrupted by a tapestry near the door and an old brown and gold carpet. Four pillars stood near the four corners of the room, probably added to give the ceiling some support. There were two tall gothic windows with stained glass on the opposite wall to the door. Not much as far as furniture was concerned except a wooden table and one ancient bookshelf with double glass doors. The altar, the benches, or whatever else might have been there once upon a time had been taken out a long, very long time ago, and the only indication of the previous function of the room were the chapters of the pillars which were carved to depict apocalyptic visions – each pillar a horseman of the book of revelations. It made a shiver run down Crowley’s back, and he was visibly not the only one to be made uncomfortable by the room.

Ezra exhaled loudly, breaking the cold silence. “Here we are.”

“No time to lose.” Anathema whispered back while setting her suitcase on the table.

They set out to work. Anathema made some more measurements and calculations with the help of Newt and Adam, and Madame Tracy made her way around the room, tracing the walls with her hands, searching for God knew what. They busied themselves for a while in silence, nobody talking. Maybe it was this utter lack of any sound that made them all aware of the noise behind their backs.

“Who’s there?” Shadwell called out with a tone that was more intimidating than he himself probably felt.

Three youthful faces poked out from their hiding spot behind a pillar. Brian and Wensleydale had the good graces to look at least a bit guilty. Pepper, on the other hand, wasn’t even trying to.

“For the love of...” Crowley exclaimed. “Is the whole school out tonight or? What are you doing here?”

“It’s not even nine o’clock, sir!” Wensleydale replied, stung by the underlying accusation.

“Yes, right, but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here nor why you were hiding behind a pillar.”

“Fair enough,” Wensleydale agreed.

“Well, if you’re going to act like our friend’s shadow for a whole day, we’re going to come check on him at some point.” Piper answered with an air of defiance.

“Fair enough.” Crowley mirrored Wensleydale.

The three children looked past Crowley to the rest of the group, who went back to their various degrees of investigation. Only Adam kept staring at his friends, and shrugged to show that he, too, didn’t understand everything of what was going on. They looked as Anathema was trying to study the carpet, seeing if it could be removed.

“I don’t understand,” she muttered, “by all accounts there should be something right here!”

“Or perhaps you are simply not looking for the right thing.”

They all turned around sharply and remained petrified at the vision before them. The short and grim figure of Lord Beelzebub was standing in the doorway. Behind them, Hastur and Ligur wore their best matching grins – grins that didn’t seem friendly at all. Crowley’s eyes narrowed to the right hand of Beelzebub, in which a strange artefact was held. Things were clicking back together into his mind: the details that were still eluding him from the night of his encounter with the two scheming teachers. The artefact, he still didn’t remember, but he was familiar with the sickly green light that was emanating from it.

“Now,” Beelzebub continued matter-of-factly, “you are going to hand me the boy!”

“Don’t be ridiculous” is what they should have said, of course, but none of them did. They found that they could not reply nor move a muscle. There was a force that stuck them in place, a feeling was also taking hold of their minds, a feeling that Crowley was familiar with, unlike the rest of them. He tried to focus as he had done a few nights before, tried to chase away the mist. It seemed, however, that the effect was significantly stronger when Beelzebub was the one using it.

With mounting dread, they saw Adam move forward, as if prompted by an invisible force, and join Beelzebub who had crossed the room to stand in the middle of the carpet.

“Interesting telluric lines converging in this room, don’t you agree Miss Device? The people who built this Abbey in the Middle Ages were aware, of course. They didn’t have the same disdain for magic at the time.” The mathematics teacher explained.

They gave Crowley a side-glance.

“They built the Abbey according to their knowledge of these lines, and this room has a particularly… special aura. People who have tried to use this room for any purpose other than occult practice have found that they could never stay in it for more than an hour without feeling their skin burn.”

Beelzebub was clutching Adam’s shoulder now, their expression as neutral as ever.

“Luckily for me, I am not trying to use this room for another purpose. Now… could you proceed, perhaps, Mister Young?”

The poor child was acting like a strange puppet, with unnatural movement and eyes that darted everywhere around him in panic – the only sign of his unwillingness. He took the little pocket knife handed to him by Hastur, and did a little cut on his finger. Slightly longer than a paper cut, but probably not deeper than that. Then he presented this same hand up towards the ceiling. Hastur and Ligur started chanting in a low voice. They did not seem to perfectly understand what they were reciting. It was as if listening to people in Catholic mass who had no idea what any of the Latin prayers meant.

The lights in the room dimmed suddenly, as if they were mere candles blown by the wind. Even the greenish light produced by Lord Beelzebub’s artefact seemed to falter for a moment. But it was replaced by a pale silvery light coming from the ceiling which traced a sort of pattern on the crude stone. Beelzebub finally smiled – perhaps the first smile they had displayed in years at St Jerome.

“Yes! This is it! Finally! What is rightfully mine shall be restored to me!”

The silver light turned into an odd purple hue, and it grew significantly darker. Light could hardly be said to be dark, and yet this particular one felt ominous and sombre. It also spread like some sort of viscous liquid throughout the room. They all felt even sleepier than from whatever the artefact had done to them, but the confusion in their minds seemed to recede. It was akin to falling into a gentle repose.

They gave in to the feeling one after the other, and everything went black around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop woop, here it is!  
> As I said in my opening note: open ending. I'd say it's vague enough to make you wonder what's going to happen next... *evil grin* And, once again, there might be a follow-up... or I might never find the time and leave it on its own. I guess it'll depend also on whether people want to know or not, but it'll mostly be a schedule problem.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this fic! It was probably a bit more than I should have chewed length-wise, but it's there anyway, and I'm happy of what I've accomplished. ^-^


End file.
